


Many Happy Returns

by poisonivory



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Presents, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 05:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10824825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonivory/pseuds/poisonivory
Summary: Five times Foggy celebrated Matt's birthday.





	Many Happy Returns

**Author's Note:**

> A [Fandom Together](http://pluckyredhead.tumblr.com/post/153106184034/pluckyredhead-hi-friends-its-been-a-rough) fic for what_alchemy! Pure fluff.

[1]

“Oh, sweet!” Foggy says as he digs out the contents of his mailbox.

“What is it?” Matt asks. He’s already checked his own mailbox, but it’s empty, as usual. There aren’t many people who need to get in touch with him, and for those who do - the university, the orphanage, his bank - he goes digital as quickly as possible. The more things he can make his screenreader read out loud for him instead of his admittedly very accommodating roommate, the better.

“Package slip, man. I got a present!” Foggy says, and leads Matt through the maze that is the campus mailroom to the window where a student worker is boredly exchanging package slips for actual packages.

“A present?” Matt asks, and then realizes. “Oh. Foggy, is it - ?”

“My birthday!” Foggy crows. “I mean, not today, my birthday’s on Wednesday. But I assume that’s what this is.”

“Hey, happy early birthday,” Matt says, a little diffidently, as Foggy hands his slip to the clerk in the package room. Is he supposed to make a big fuss? Foggy sounds so excited. Crap, was he supposed to get Foggy a _present?_

“Thanks.” Foggy picks up the package the mail clerk slides across the counter to him. “Oh, it’s from Aunt Janet, _nice_. She always picks out the good stuff. Don’t worry, you get half of anything edible.”

“You really don’t have to do that,” Matt demurs.

“Pssh, you’re my roomie, I bet she packed half of it for you in the first place,” Foggy says. He tucks the package under his arm and taps Matt’s arm with his free hand, offering it up for leading. “I - oh, wait, hey. When’s your birthday?”

“October 21st.”

Foggy stops short, which brings Matt to a halt too. “What?”

Matt cocks his head at him. “October...21st?” he repeats. Is there something weird about that date?

“It’s _May_.”

“So it is.”

“Your birthday was six...no, seven months ago! You never said anything!” Foggy protests.

Matt shrugs. “It wasn’t a big deal. I’ve had lots of birthdays. Nineteen of them, in fact.” He tries a grin, but Foggy still sounds upset.

“But I never got you anything! There was no cake! We didn’t sing - Matt, I didn’t _regale you with my dulcet tones_.”

Matt laughs. “You regale me with your dulcet tones pretty regularly, Foggy.” He’s learned a _lot_ of Gilbert and Sullivan songs this year.

“But not with ‘Happy Birthday.’ Come on, we could have had a roomie birthday bash.” Foggy elbows Matt a little. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna make up for it. You tell me all your birthday traditions and we’ll do it up right, half-birthday-and-change-style.”

“I don’t really have any birthday traditions.” Matt thinks about his dad bringing cupcakes to his elementary school classroom, pizza for dinner and staying up late to go see the fights. He swallows.

“You’ve gotta have _something_.”

“There were a lot of kids at the orphanage.” Matt feels his ears heating up. He hates it, the telltale sign that he knows pity is coming and that he’s embarrassed by it. He has nothing to be ashamed of. “There wasn’t really time to give everyone their own traditions.”

“Oh, _dude_ ,” Foggy says. There it is: pity. “Shit, man, I’m sorry, I’m being such an asshole.”

“It’s fine,” Matt says quickly. “We sang ‘Happy Birthday’ at dinner and everything. It just…wasn’t a big deal.” There was chocolate milk instead of regular, and presents donated by the congregation, but somehow he thinks saying that out loud will make it worse.

“Yeah, well.” The cheer in Foggy’s voice is forced. “You just stay tuned for October 21st, 2007, buddy, because it’s gonna be a _rager_.”

Matt takes the out gratefully. “When they need to replace my liver before my twentieth birthday I’m telling them it’s your fault.”

“Please, whose idea was it to do all those jello shots last weekend?”

“Yours.”

“Well, yes, but you should have stopped me!”

A week later Matt comes back from class to find a Braille birthday card on his desk on top of a small boxed cupcake. _A big beautiful belated birthday to you!_ the card says, and there’s the raised imprint of a couple of cartoon dogs in party hats. It’s pretty cheesy.

Foggy’s not around, so Matt doesn’t have to pretend he’s not running his fingers over the message over and over again while he eats the cupcake. It’s vanilla with strawberry frosting. Matt can’t stop smiling.

 

[2]

“Matt? You in here, buddy?”

Matt lifts his head from where it’s buried in his hands and tries to compose his features. It apparently doesn’t help, because Foggy hisses in a breath as he slips into the bathroom and says, “Yikes.”

“Sorry,” Matt says, stupidly.

“Don’t be sorry.” Foggy sits down on the floor next to him. “What’s wrong? You getting one of your migraines?”

Matt should take the handy excuse Foggy’s unwittingly offered him, especially since he doesn’t actually _get_ migraines. They’re just a convenient - and far more understandable - excuse for sometimes huddling in a miserable, overstimulated ball in his bed in the middle of the day than “I got chemicals splashed in my eyes as a kid and now I can’t stop hearing leaves hitting the sidewalk.” Since that’s basically what’s happening now, at least there’s some nice symmetry to using the lie again.

But he doesn’t want to ruin the party.

“No,” he says. “No, I’m fine.”

“You’re sitting on the bathroom floor and you’re paler than the grout in the tub over there,” Foggy says kindly. “Admittedly that grout is awfully funky, but...what happened?”

What happened was Foggy told Matt they were going to a house party with some kids he knew from the theater department, and Matt knew he was lying but not about what part of it or why or how to call him on it, so he went along with it, because even if Foggy wasn’t always one hundred percent honest about unimportant details he’d never steered Matt wrong. What happened was they’d walked into a crowded house with a lot of muffled giggling, only to hear a collective shout of “SURPRISE!” and a lot of noisemakers. What happened was that there were suddenly people clapping Matt on the back and hugging him, wishing him happy birthday, too many and too fast for him to tell them apart, and everything was so _loud_ and everyone was being so _nice_ and Foggy had done all of this for _him_ \- 

Hiding in the bathroom had made sense at the time.

“It’s just...a lot,” he says, waving a hand vaguely at the bathroom door. “I wasn’t expecting it. It’s so nice, it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me - ” he adds in a rush, terrified that Foggy will think he’s ungrateful.

“ - but you weren’t braced for being tackled by three dozen drunk people at once,” Foggy says, clearly working it out out loud. “Oh, dude. I didn’t even think - _shit_. This is, like, the worst birthday present ever given.”

“No,” Matt says quickly. “No, Foggy, it’s _so nice…_ ”

“It’s not a good present for _you_.” Foggy shakes his head. “You don’t like surprises and crowds. You like studying and, and solitary autumn walks and, like, hard-to-find herbal teas. Dammit.”

“I like parties sometimes,” Matt tries, weakly. He hadn’t realized Foggy had him so neatly pegged. The part of him that isn’t huddled away from the chaos outside is touched.

“Stop trying to give me an out, buddy, I totally screwed the pooch here.” Foggy shifts closer to Matt so that their thighs are touching. He’s warm and solid, a grounding presence. “I just wanted someone to make a fuss over your birthday for once. You deserve a fuss.”

Matt tilts his head onto Foggy’s shoulder. It’s probably a weird thing for two male roommates to do, but Foggy doesn’t move away. Foggy never moves away.

“So what do you want to do?” Foggy asks after a minute of quiet breathing. “Do you want to sneak out of here? I can tell everyone you’re not feeling well, they’ll be a little bummed but they’re on their way to getting drunk enough that they won’t remember you bailed.”

“I can’t just _leave_ , Foggy…”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Foggy asks. “I can make my excuses, it’ll be fine.”

Matt swallows hard. Foggy’s offering to not only let Matt ditch the birthday party Foggy threw in his honor, but to ditch it _with_ him. He knows he’s never done anything good enough to deserve Foggy, but he doesn’t want to think about what’s going to happen to him when karma catches up with that fact.

“No, I’ll be okay,” he says, straightening up. “It was just a lot to take in at once. I’m fine now. We can go back out there.”

Foggy tilts his head. “I’m giving you a skeptical look,” he says.

“Well,” Matt amends. “Maybe we could leave on the early side?”

“You got it, buddy.” Foggy bounces to his feet and holds his hands out. “Gimme your hands, would you? Right in front of you. Also I’m gonna hover over your shoulder all night like a helicopter mom, so get ready for that.”

“Then how’m I gonna sneak a drink?”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m a cool mom.”

Matt slips his hands into Foggy’s and Foggy pulls him to his feet. “The coolest,” Matt agrees, and lets Foggy lead him out the door.

 

[3]

Matt picks up a familiar scent before he’s halfway up the stairs to the office and has to fight to keep the smile off his face. Foggy will be disappointed if he knows his surprise has been spoiled.

He pushes open the office door and leans his cane against the wall, ignoring a muffled giggle. “Hello?” he calls.

“Happy birthday!” Karen crows, tapping him on the elbow to orient him before she hugs him.

“Thanks,” he says, hugging her back. “But how did you know it was my birthday?”

“Ah, the answer to that is in the conference room.” She gentle tugs him along to where Foggy’s heart is beating a cheerful tattoo. “The birthday boy has arrived, Mr. Nelson.”

“Is my present a meeting?” Matt asks. “How ever did you guess?”

“Your present is a whole _day_ of meetings, Matty-boy,” Foggy says. “Right now you have a nine o’ clock with your favorite blueberry pancakes from EJ’s and some fancy-ass coffee from Cafe Grumpy for my best grump.”

“I’m not grumpy,” Matt says, trying his best to look like he is, but his grin keeps breaking through. Foggy’s gone over a mile out of his way in either direction for this spread.

“At ten you have a meeting with opening your presents, and I’m warning you now that my parents sent over a _really_ big box so that’s gotta be something fun,” Foggy goes on. “Also Karen’s going to take pictures of you opening everything and put them on the company website.”

“We don’t have a website,” Matt protests.

“That’s true. Karen, make a company website for Matt’s birthday!” Foggy commands, and Karen laughs and steals one of the still-steaming coffee cups. “Twelve o’clock, a long lunch at Annabel’s. Three o’clock, we knock off early, pick up a bottle of tequila and some tacos from Anejo, and take this party back to Casa Murdock for the finest of Golden Age baseball podcasts.”

“So basically you’re just feeding me all day,” Matt says.

“I am serving as proxy to my mother here, she is very concerned that you’re wasting away,” Foggy says. “Also it’s possible there’s a cake stashed in the fridge for us to take home later.”

“Karen, please pick up some Pepto-Bismol when you get a chance,” Matt says, but he can’t stop smiling.

“So that’s all you’re going to do?” Karen asks. “Listen to old baseball games and drink?”

“It’s a proud tradition,” Foggy says, giving Matt an affectionate hug around the neck and ruffling his hair. “Now eat your pancakes, Murdock, they’re getting cold.”

“You two are weird,” Karen says fondly as she takes the seat next to Matt and pulls a styrofoam box of pancakes towards herself.

She’s not wrong. But all that day, from the first quiet breakfast together to Foggy falling asleep on Matt’s shoulder that evening, still smelling of strawberry and vanilla, Matt can’t help feeling like his weirdness has never been so well understood.

 

[4]

Matt wrinkles his nose as he walks up the stairs to his apartment and frowns. It’s been a long day and he’s bone-tired, but he still shouldn’t be smelling someone who hasn’t been here in nearly a year.

But the familiar scent doesn’t dissipate, and when he reaches for the doorknob, he feels a plastic bag hanging from it. Normally a mysterious package waiting for him would concern him, but he’s got a pretty good idea who’s sent this one.

He lets himself into the apartment, bag dangling from two fingers, and locks the door behind him. There’s a small paper box in the bag, and an envelope. Inside the envelope is a card with Braille on the front: _HAPPY BIRTHDAY!_

He opens the card and traces over the pre-printed Braille message inside: _AND MANY HAPPY RETURNS._ Beneath it there’s a message written in pen, the letters marked deep so Matt can feel them.

_Hope you can read this. Figured we might as well keep some traditions alive. Stay safe. - F_

He already knows what’s in the box, but he opens it anyway and stands there for a long moment, breathing in the scent of vanilla cake and strawberry frosting, index finger tracing the F carved into his card like a scar.

A siren wails half a mile away, startling him out of his daze. He snaps the box shut, puts it in the refrigerator, and goes to change into his suit. He needs something to hit.

 

[5]

It’s nearly dawn by the time Matt gets home. He’s tired but in a clean, satisfied way; he did good work tonight, and the ache in his bones will be there to remind him of that when the next day’s bustle threatens to make him forget.

By the time he reaches the roof of his building he can already sense a warm heart beating at the kitchen table, instead of in bed where it should be. It makes him nervous, and he fumbles with the door as he hurries into the apartment.

“Foggy?” he calls. “Why are you still up? Is something wrong?”

“Not unless you’re hurt,” Foggy says. “Are you?”

“No,” Matt says, tossing his helmet onto the couch and pulling his gloves off as he approaches the table. “You know I’d wake you up if I was. It was a good night.”

When Foggy moved in, he’d ranked all possible injuries on a scale from one to ten. Anything above three meant Matt had to wake Foggy up; anything above six meant calling Claire. It had taken Matt a couple months to be okay with waking Foggy up instead of soldiering through on his own, but once he realized that Foggy couldn’t fall asleep unless he trusted Matt to let him know if he needed help, he begrudgingly adopted what Foggy called the “Matty Misery Metric.”

“Good,” says Foggy, with a slight but palpable release of tension. Matt hates that he still worries so much, but they’ve worked on it. They _are_ working on it.

“So why are you up?” Matt asks again.

“It’s morning,” Foggy says. There’s a scratching sound and a burst of sulfur in the air. “Happy birthday, Matty.”

Now Matt notices the familiar scent of strawberry buttercream, which he overlooked in his concern. He grins and sinks into the chair across from Foggy. “You old sap.”

“You know how I feel about tradition.”

Matt leans forward towards where the single candle burns atop an oversized cupcake, a point of bright heat in front of the bigger, warmer light that always guides him home. “Should I make a wish?”

Foggy _tch_ es. “Obviously. How are we gonna win the lottery otherwise? Daddy needs a new pair of shoes. And a vacation in Cabo.”

Matt grins wider and closes his eyes for show. He blows out the candle in a short puff of air.

“Hooray!” Foggy whisper-cheers so as not to wake the neighbors.

“Split it with me?” Matt asks.

“Oh, twist my arm,” Foggy says, pushing a fork across the table towards Matt, and it’s then that Matt realizes there’s a second fork in front of Foggy. He laughs and picks up his own fork in one hand, laying his other across the table, palm up. Foggy curls his free hand over it.

“So what’d you wish for?” Foggy asks around a mouthful of cake and frosting.

Matt swallows before he answers. “Can’t tell you. Won’t come true,” he points out, and Foggy sighs.

“No attorney-client privilege?”

“If you ever represent me in birthday court, I’ll fill you in.”

Foggy blows a raspberry, and Matt laughs as he licks frosting off the tines of his fork. The city is quiet, or as quiet as it ever gets, and the firm is healthy. Foggy is holding his hand, and later Matt will kiss the taste of buttercream off his lips. The truth is, there’s nothing left to wish for.

“Happy birthday, Matty,” Foggy mumbles against the back of his neck later, once the cupcake is eaten and they’re curled up in bed to snatch a few hours of sleep before they have to be at the office.

And once again, because of Foggy, it is.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi [on tumblr](http://pluckyredhead.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
